


30 Day Trope Challenge - Johnlock

by NerdyMind



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Angst, Crack, Fluff, Johnlock Trope Challenge, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 01:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1725755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyMind/pseuds/NerdyMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>30 Days of TV Tropes explored in the world of Johnlock.</p><p>For the month of June, there is a daily prompt at <a href="http://johnlocktropechallenge.tumblr.com/">JohnLockTropeChallenge</a> for art and fic.  Each day completed is an entry for prizes.  I will be playing along and posting my ficlets here.  Please see each Chapter summary for verse, triggers and details for that ficlet.  Flagged as explicit since many chapters will be M/E.</p><p>Will be updated periodically between projects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unconscious Love Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post TGG, a what-if pool scene alternate ending.

The explosion took less than 2 seconds to rip through the swimming pool but in Sherlock’s mind it was an eternity. He could see the spark just above his wrist, the gunshot still reverberating through his hand as he sent a bullet in motion, across the short distance to the discarded explosives, ripping through them, igniting a larger more deadly flame. The blast radius will be low and tight, debris hitting them in the legs and lower core. Sherlock notes all this, deduces the best way to grab John and roll into the pool, hopefully avoiding damage to the more vital organs and tissue.

He is still talking himself into grabbing the shorter man when water fills his lungs. His mind is readjusting to all the new information, his location, the muffled blast overhead, the weight of his sodden clothes pulling him down, down, down to the darker shadows beneath his feet. There is a pressure on his side. Looking down he sees his blogger, wrapped about his waist, head tucked low. Puffs of blood trailing through the bubbles before them. He gasps, taking in too much water, mind collapsing, flooding in confusion.

“Sherlock, wake up,” the voice is grating, unwelcome. His head throbs, dull and swimming. _Swimming_. Sherlock opens his eyes, the shadow of his brother’s face hardly back in focus before the name is on his lips. “John?”

“He is alive, but unresponsive,” Mycroft says. His voice is steadied, forced calm.

“Unresponsive?” Sherlock echoes, eyebrow arching. He can feel a small bandage crinkle but waits to hear more information before assessing his own cuts and bruises.

“His injuries were greater. The left side of his face and body taking most of the explosion. Tackled you into the pool, I can only assume acting on instinct while you were in your mind palace running through fourteen possible scenarios--”

“Three. May I see him?”

“Sherlock--”

“Brother dear, may I see him now or will I be forced to slip by security once you leave?”

Mycroft huffs, “I will page the nurse--”

“Already summoned,” Sherlock smirks, hand rising to show the call button.

John looks small. There is no better word to encompass the fragile and childlike form on those white sheets. His skin is too pale. Washed out in the cornflower blue dressing gown and blinding lights of the room. His face lax and wrinkle free. Sherlock is suddenly aware of the man’s youth, his innocent beauty. When placid, without anger, without worry furrowing his brow, John is peaceful. Disgustingly peaceful. Sherlock hates it.

“John,” he begins, his voice cracked and barely a whisper. Sherlock’s own IV is carted to the side of a sitting chair. He settles to sit beside the man who saved him and wave off the helpful hands of kin and attendant. “Oh god John, what have you done?”

Sherlock doesn’t see them leave. But he can feel a shift in the air and knows he is alone. He slides the chair closer, wincing as he resettles. John’s hand is now inches from his face and the detective only hesitates a second before taking it in his own. His palm swallowing the smaller man’s immobile digits, making John feel even smaller. He can feel a pulse, weak but present and it settles him to a degree. Enough to speak.

“John, I don’t know if you can actually hear me. There is some evidence to suggest that those in a coma such as yours exhibit increased brain activity when exposed to verbal stimulus but the research is still in its infancy and inconclusive. However, if there is any chance, I need to--” he chokes then, a sob wrenched from his throat. Sherlock’s head falls to their joined hands, tears between them. “Idiot. Why would you-- why? I should have seen it. The way you grabbed Moriarty and told me to run. The way you nodded without hesitation. Agreeing to join me in the risk and the consequence. And while I was panicked, planning how to pull you into the pool with me, you were already on your feet and deciding for us both.”

Sherlock paused to breathe. From what Mycroft had told him, John probably knew what he was going to do before his flatmate pulled the trigger. “John, thank you. For everything. Though, I am not deserving of your loyalty, I am ever grateful. I want you to know that. I need you to know that. I do appreciate you. And if I…” He shakes his head, the words more difficult to piece together. “If I ever get the chance to repay you, I will take it. Without a moment’s hesitation. You are.. precious to me. Irreplaceable. I--” Sherlock pauses again. Glances up to make sure the steady pulse and assisted breathing is unchanged. “I love you.” The last words whispered into joined hands before Sherlock is wracked with sobs.

“Oh Sherlock,” Mycroft sighs in the hallway. Suddenly wishing he couldn’t read lips or body language. _This will not end well._


	2. It's Not Pity, It's Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> post HLV, villain Mary. PTSD John doesn't take to being coddled.

John moved back to Baker Street two weeks ago. The dust lines of his old room were untouched. He hadn’t moved from his chair in all that time save to sleep on the sofa and see to personal hygiene. Sherlock brought the man his food and tea each day. John did not eat more than was necessary but he ate and Sherlock would clear the plates and wash the dishes and go about his experiments and wait. John did not sleep well. He would wake shaking and screaming. Once calm he would stare at the fireplace with a blank expression until exhaustion reclaimed him. Sherlock said nothing.

John had seen many horrible things in his short life. War, tragedy, betrayal. The last one was guilty for his current mental lockdown. It wasn’t Afghanistan that kept him up at nights. Not anymore. It was her. One scene playing on repeat. Every outcome different but identical. Sherlock always died. Mary would poison him. Shoot him. Choke him. One particularly cruel nightmare featured an iron maiden and far more blood than could logically be contained in a human body. John hadn’t spoken for three weeks. Sherlock said nothing.

_“Please,” Sherlock’s voice was ragged, tired. He had been missing for three days. Tied up in a basement, and beaten for information. He was meant to starve to death. But Mary’s men hadn’t counted on his unique ability to survive on little food. And the stroke of luck that provided him with rainwater the first two days. “Please,” he whispered again. John froze. The room spinning, elation that his detective was alive, but rage at the state he’d been found in. And there she was. Always grinning, always laughing. Gun jammed rough into Sherlock’s temple. The barrel threatening to add more bruises to his already battered face. Mary threw her head back for a particularly loud laugh and John took his shot. Two bullets echoed in the small room. Mary and Sherlock both collapsed. Sherlock said nothing._

“Sherlock!” John sat upright. Looking about the flat in confusion. Sometimes it took mere seconds to remind himself where he’d been. Other days it would take hours until Sherlock’s cologne or violin would bring him back. But it was cold this time. Empty. No sign of his flatmate. John panicked, terrified the past few weeks were all a dream. “Sherlock?” he asked the vacant chair as he crossed the room to start a fire. He settled in his own chair, pulled a familiar grey shawl across his legs and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His throat burned. He should probably make tea. Later. He stared at the fireplace and waited. Sherlock would make tea. Sherlock always made him tea.

“I don’t know what to do Gavin.” Sherlock was pacing the offices of NSY. No cases to distract him, not that he would have taken any. Too worried to leave John alone for long.

“Greg.”

“Greg, right, listen to me. What do I do?”

“I don’t know what to tell you. In cases like this it can take weeks or months, years even. When people witness personal trauma it changes--”

“But he’s not people! He’s... he’s John.”

“Sherlock, I don’t know!” Greg yelled in exasperation. Leaning back onto his desk, arms crossed, head shaking side to side in a bitter negative. He was on the verge of tears himself. John and Mary had been his friends too. Hell he’d gone to their wedding. He had his own issues to deal with.

“You’re useless,” Sherlock pouted and stomped to the elevator. He considered calling Ella, John’s former therapist, but thought better of further violating the man’s trust and returned to Baker Street instead.

Sherlock entered the flat and knew immediately that something was different. For starters, John looked up when he walked in. His eyes swimming into focus, looking through then at him. He seemed shocked to see his flatmate. “Sherlock?” John asked the spectre in the doorway.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock found the words difficult. Every impulse in his body was screaming. _Go to him. Hold him. Touch him and let him know it’s okay_. But he stood there. “I’m here.”

“I’m glad,” John said, smiling gently before turning back to stare into the fire.

Sherlock counted the beats of his racing heart. A full minute before he dared move from the entryway and remove his coat. He made tea for them both, settled into his own seat by the fire and waited.

“How long?” John asked.

Sherlock looked up. Still processing the voice he hadn’t heard since the hospital. Deep and husky from lack of use and lack of sleep. “Hmm?”

“How long have you been taking care of me?” John asked. He settled the drained cup back on its saucer and folded his hands in his lap, calmly. As if this were the most normal conversation they had ever had.

“Three weeks,” Sherlock answered honestly.

“No,” John corrected. His eyes flashed up, anger and frustration locked on his friend. “No. Longer. It has been much longer.”

“John, I can assure it has only been three weeks since the.. since the..” Sherlock trailed off, dropping his gaze as he set his teacup back on the side table. He could still feel the remaining stitches and bandages beneath his dressing gown. The yellowed bruises on his cheek had almost faded.

“No,” John corrected again. Insistent. He leaned forward, accusatory finger jabbing the air. “Always. You always…” it was his turn to trail off. Look away.

“John, what are you--”

“Is this just some sick experiment?,” John accused. His voice was back in full force now. “Is it pity? Sherlock, what happened all those years ago? Hmm? Did you just see this broken man with a fake limp and a cane and decide to fix him?”

“W-What?! God no.” Sherlock felt himself getting angry but was terrified of pushing John away. He reigned it in, cleared his throat and began anew in the calmest tone he could muster. “John, I swear to you--”

“Hah!” John scoffed. He rose from his chair, standing before his friend, towering over him. Hands balled and shaking. “I don’t need your help! Everyone’s face looking at me like I am a child in need of a hug and a nap. You can take it all. All this goddamned pity. Take it and shove off.”

Sherlock was speechless. He wanted to reach out, touch the man before him. Cradle him gently, speak to him softly. But clearly that wasn’t what John needed. Carefully, the detective rose until he was just inches from John’s face. Closing the space between them he spoke, voice low and predatory. “John Watson, my friend, my flatmate, my life. Do not presume for one second that what I feel for you is pity. I hurt for you. I am broken and empty inside seeing you suffer these past few weeks. But it is not pity I feel. It is rage. It is frustration. It is a tense coiled wire threatening to snap inside me and cut me down if I do not act. So forgive me if I cannot just sit here and say nothing for one second longer.” His final words were ghosts whispered across John’s cheek. Leaning in, Sherlock grabbed him, swallowed the shorter man in his dressing gown and kissed him for all it was worth. Rough, unapologetic. All teeth and violence.

John said nothing. His mouth was too busy kissing back.


	3. Secret Admirer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teenlock, TW: suicidal thoughts, love letters in your locker. Everyone is probably OOC and uber angsty because I don't know how to write happy teenagers.

“You dropped this,” Mike scooped the letter from John’s feet. “Ohh.. looks like someone has a secret admirer.”

“W-What?” the blonde flustered and flushed, slamming his locker a bit louder than he’d meant to. “Shut up Mike, it’s probably just another note from Molly asking about Jim. She’s been trying to get his number for weeks. No one would...” he trailed off. _No one loves_ me echoing in his mind.

“I dunno mate, this one has a heart on it. And your name.. oh so fancy. Look at that J.” Mike waggled his eyebrows, laughing as John turned an even deeper shade of red. The nervous boy quickly stuffed his rugby gear inside his duffel and tossed the bag over his shoulder.

“Yes, alright, you can piss off now,” John huffed and snatched the folded sheet from his friend. Shouldering past him to sit on the stairs. Mike hovered, still curious.

“Aww come on John, you gotta tell me what it says.”

Looking down at the fine parchment and delicate script, his heart fluttered. The way his name was written, four simple letters so beautifully set to paper that his own identity looked magical and foreign. “No.” The single word and a cold look from those hard navy eyes was enough.

“Oi, fine. But you better tell me who she is after practice. I’ll tell coach you’re running late.”

John waited for his mate’s footsteps to fade. He looked around the hallway, up and down the stairwell. Once safely alone, he opened the note.

 

>   _John,_
> 
> _I tried many times over the years to communicate with you. Many binned letters, numbers half dialed, conversations that never made it past my own mind. Much of this is still frightfully new to me so I do apologize for resorting to such an impersonal communique. I have watched you for so long. Please don’t make that face, I mean that I observe you in curiosity. And after what I saw last week, I thought it was time someone told you the truth._
> 
> _You are more amazing than you realize. More brilliant and fantastic than any of the insipid girls you waste time on are worth. I see how they treat you. I hear how little your so-called mates and girlfriends respect you. I do not understand. How do you give them all your hours and all of your affections and receive so little in return? Does it not make you mad? It drives me mad. You are irreplaceable John Watson. You are a glowing beacon of light and hope in this school, and I imagine the whole of the universe. I am not often prone to acts of poetry, but you are the sun and we are all but passing bodies warmed by your presence, however fleeting._
> 
> _No one has told you and you need to know. I do not expect anything in return and as such I will leave this note unsigned. Just remember, no matter how dark the world around you seems, you are loved. Yes, I saw. I won’t tell anyone, I swear. But please, do not harm yourself ever again. You are strong and you will get through this. Your life is important. And you are the only light in mine._

 “What happened last week?”

John jumped, stuffing the letter inside his hoodie pocket. “Mary, what the hell are you doing here?”

“I was looking for you,” the short blonde settled to sit beside him, uncomfortably close. John twitched. He wanted to run, but as much as he wanted to get away, explaining why was a more dreadful thought.

“Why?” he managed through gritted teeth.

“To give you this,” Mary whispered, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. A distraction as her hand slipped inside his pocket, snatching the note. A small gasp echoed through the hall. John looked up in time to see a tall dark figured bolt through the doors to the back building.

 _Stupid stupid stupid_. Sherlock chided himself. Rushing across the yard, a cigarette already in his hands. Lighter gripped in white knuckles as he made his way to the far end of the brick wall where he could hide his face from people and wind and shame. _Of course he likes Mary. Of course. He’s always dated girls. Why do I even care? I wrote the note to cheer him up, not to, to… what? Stupid!_ He threw himself bodily against the bricks, slumping to the grass, knees bracketing his hanging head. He lit the smoke, breathed in too deeply and coughed, gasping and shaking for several beats before he realized he was crying. _It was the stupid heart that ruined everything. An idiotic little doodle. I should have just torn the corner off, written over it. Forget it, just let her take the credit. She already copies all his homework. Why not let her stake claim to something else she had no rights to? It’s not as if.. as if…_ His thoughts were lost to a fresh wave of choked sobs and burning eyes.

John shoved Mary away, grabbing her wrist and twisting. “Drop it,” his eyes flashed dangerously. Not a request. Mary scrunched her nose up, looking the boy up and down, measuring her chances. “Fine,” she huffed, flinging the letter at his feet before storming off.

Bending to pick up the note, John cast his eyes back to the doors he’d seen the unmistakable mop of dark curls run through. _Sherlock_. The name alone sent shivers through his core. Without a second thought, he ran after the boy. Across the yard, back behind the cafeteria, he found him, slumped in the grass and shaking.

“Sherlock?” John asked quietly, sitting next to the taller boy. He stopped shaking but remained unresponsive. “Sherlock,” John tried again. “I know the letter was from you.” Sherlock looked up then, eyes puffy and red but wide with surprise. “Wh-- How?!”

John wanted to ask why the boy was crying, but thought better of it and answered his question instead. “Lots of reasons. The most obvious being that the paper positively reeks of your cigarettes,” John laughed then, indicating the still burning trail of ash in Sherlock’s fingers. The addict flicked his offending smoke away as if it were to blame for spilling his secret. John leaned in closer, pulling the note from his pocket and unfolding it between them. “These smudges here, on the bottom of the page betray your hand size, you have remarkably big hands. And the ink, I know your pen and your handwriting. We have sat beside one another in multiple classes for years. I know your stroke and ink by now. And, the giveaway,” John smiled, holding the paper up to the sunlight. “You can clearly see your name and a scattering of chemistry notes impressed from the sheet you must have written upon atop this one.”

Sherlock’s mouth hung open. His mind had blanked in awe. John’s smile faltered just a fraction when he did not respond and Sherlock couldn’t have that. Finding his voice he returned the grin and beamed, “Brilliant! John Watson, you are a proper genius.”

“And you are a proper idiot,” John laughed. “Thinking I like Mary? Is that why you bolted?” He shouldered the taller boy, leaning into him and sighing at the touch. Sherlock’s arm coming up behind him, to draw him closer. John let himself be pulled in, his face nestled into the warmth of the awkward embrace. “It’s always been you, Sherlock. No one else.”


	4. Angel / Demon AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am a lazy knob, so this AU follows angel and demon rules set forth by Supernatural with some wiggle room and bullshit I made up too.  
> Angel!John, Demon!Sherlock

“ _The Freak and the Saint_... that’s what they’re calling us now,” John shifted on the sofa, folding the tabloid in half to cover the headline from his view. He looked up to see Sherlock staring at him. Fingers poised beneath his chin, head cocked and waiting for him to finish, “This is disgusting, Sherlock. We need to be more careful.”

“I imagine you’d be pleased, wouldn’t you rather they called you a saint than a.. what was it… confirmed bachelor?” the detective asked, leaning forward.

“It’s not me I’m thinking of,” John glared, tossing the paper aside in anger as he stood.

“Ah, selfless saint, I see it now.” Sherlock smiled, trying to brighten the situation. “John you don’t need to worry. I hardly listen to all the colorful names you call me, why would I take anything a gossip columnist prints to heart?”

“It’s not that,” John retorted, crossing the room to stand before his flatmate. “Look, I just don’t want everyone thinking you’re some… monster.”

Sherlock sat back slowly, hands fidgeting, eyes squinting in confusion. “Why does it bother you so much? What people say about me. Why would it bother _you_?”

“It just… it just does, okay?”

“But John, why--”

“Drop it, Sherlock, it just does! Okay?” John threw his hands up in exasperation as he began pacing.

“But--,” Sherlock tried again, cut off by the soft sound of wings and silence. “John?”

He hated teleporting out mid conversation but his heart was racing. John had to calm down before he did or said something he couldn’t take back. The memories were still too raw. Sherlock’s fall. His own death and rebirth. And for what? People were still dying. And now everyone who treated Sherlock poorly before he lost his soul just had more ammunition to attack him.  The detective was having a much harder time understanding emotions and John had been working overtime to keep him focused, filling in the information gaps where he could.

After a walk through the park and three cups of coffee, the blonde had talked himself into a proper confrontation and headed back. He would simply have to thank Sherlock for his sacrifice and cut him loose of any lingering obligations.

“Welcome back,” Sherlock greeted from the sofa. “I thought your wings drew too much attention. Saving them for emergencies you said.”

“Yes, well,” John discarded his coat and crossed the room. “This was an emergency. Sort of. Sherlock I--”

“John, before you say something idiotic, don’t.” Sherlock sat up, eyes flashing black for a brief second before blinking back to placid grey. “I chose my own fate. It is not guilt that falls on you.”

“But your soul…,” John settled on the floor at Sherlock’s feet. His body language making every attempt to express a fraction of the humility he was feeling. “You tracked that demon for years, Sherlock. Across so many countries, following so many leads. You were the best Hunter in the business. If anyone could take Moriarty out, it was you.” John paused, voice catching in his throat as tears stung the corners of his eyes, threatening to reveal everything. “You had him. God, you had him right there. Why didn’t you take your shot?”

“My sweet John,” Sherlock slid from the sofa to settle beside his lover. He took the angel’s hand into his own. “You know very well why I could not. He had possessed you.”

“But he killed your brother, Sherlock! God, he killed Molly. And Heaven knows how many others before we found him.”

“And my heart broke for each of them, I assure you. But you, John, you are something else. For you, I would do so much more than lay down my life. Without you, I had no need for a soul. I.. well, you felt it when you… rescued me.  Rebuilt me. You know how I feel.”

“I know.”

“Then you know.”

“But it was all for nothing.” John slumped forward, head falling to the taller man’s shoulder. Struggling against the desire to break down. “He killed me anyway.”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. And yet here we are.”

“Sherlock, I…” John snuggled in tighter. Unable to look up and meet those eyes. The same shade he knew from before, but vacant. Devoid of that spark. “I loved you. All that time, and I never told you. I still love you.”

Sherlock sighed, pulling the shorter man in for a proper hug, peppering his brow with kisses. “I never stopped loving you, John. Even when.. when they had me down there, at my worst. I always held out hope that you would find your way back to me. And you did.”

“I just feel like I let you down. I wonder sometimes why you even stay with me. After everything. Why haven’t you gone off to find Moriarty?”

“I will, in time. But with you by my side. We will take him down together or not at all.” Sherlock sat back and rolled up his sleeve. Across his forearm was a handprint, perfect imprint of John’s angelic grip. Permanent reminder of the powerful grace surging through him. “You are a part of me, now and forever. Sorry love, but you’re stuck with me,” Sherlock finished with a triumphant grin.

John laughed, arms coming up around the demon’s waist. “I’m not going anywhere. But the next time someone calls you a freak, I reserve the right to smite them. Deal?”

“Deal.”


	5. Spin the Bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unilock, lots of familiar names to fill a party. Pre-slash. I might continue this 'verse if an appropriate trope shows up later because I kinda fell in love with them. This one came out rather long, oopsie.

The green bottle was stripped of its label, rinsed and shaken dry. Set gingerly on the carpet, innocuous and forgotten. John had heard some of his dorm mates talk about the game. Something, apparently, all the regular blokes had played in secondary school while John had been too busy juggling school work, rugby and a part time job. According to the experts, it was mostly an excuse to kiss strangers and crushes. Virgins loved it for the much desired snogging practice, shy people liked it for taking some of the pressure off initiating conversation. And the dirtier minded players just used it as an excuse to traumatize anyone unlucky enough to be paired with them.

John wasn’t looking forward to playing. For starters, anything that Molly and Mike both agreed on usually spelled trouble for him. John wasn’t as virginal as everyone presumed. He’d kissed before. If snogging your next door neighbor behind the bushes in grade school counted. He was pretty sure it didn’t count. But it was the last time he’d even been curious. The short blonde wasn’t disinterested in girls (or boys for that matter) but his few attempts at relationships never seemed to survive the strain of his demanding schedule. And the self-imposed nature of his workload was always a sore spot for anyone attempting to compete. By the time he’d enrolled in Uni, the medical student had all but given up on the whole social scene. Molly and Mike his only remaining friends from a childhood full of once smiling faces.

Then he’d moved into campus housing. Mike’s charisma and Molly’s ability to befriend even the scariest of people (he wasn’t even sure if the latest boyfriend was properly enrolled at the school or just a homeless vagrant she’s picked up off the street) both forces combined to make their house the most popular party spot on weekends. So it was no surprise that the quiet kid who studiously sat in the front center of each class taking notes was stuck co-hosting the year end finals bash. At Molly’s insistence, the entire pre-med department was invited. All eighty three students.

John finished setting up the games room with poker cards, chess sets, darts and a lone bottle amid a circle of throw pillows when the first guests began arriving. He loomed in the corner nursing a beer as his housemates greeted everyone. Greg arrived first, early as usual. Sally and Phillip in tow behind him making little effort to refrain from groping one another. Some of Mike’s friends showed up shortly afterwards, pulling his attention long enough that John felt obligated to help Molly with taking coats and fetching drinks as the house began to fill with chatter. Molly disappeared for a moment to turn up the stereo, leaving John alone when the bell rang again.

John opened the door, mouth open to greet his guest when he was struck dumb. The man looming on his porch was tall and gorgeous. His lean frame was almost swallowed in a long black coat. Pale expanse of neck peeking above a ridiculous blue scarf. He looked down at John, silver eyes glinting behind a mess of dark curls and flashed a dazzling smile. “Ah, Mr. Watson,” the stranger spoke. His voice only lulled John into a deeper trance. It was liquid sex. A gilded fountain spouting the deepest, darkest chocolate wouldn’t be that silky sweet. John blinked and blinked again.

“Mr. Watson?” the stranger stepped forward, his smile twisting into a concerned frown. John flinched as a gloved hand shook him gently by the shoulder.

“Oh, uh.. sorry. Please come in,” John jumped back from the doorway allowing the taller man to enter. “You can call me John,” he offered.

“Thank you, John,” Oh god his name on those lips. It had to be a sin in every recorded faith. “Sherlock, if you please.” Removing his gloves, the man smiled and offered his hand. John shook it greedily, all warmth and nervousness. His own smile echoed brighter, blue eyes hesitant to look away from that brilliant grin. Fingers twitching from loss as Sherlock dropped the handshake and made to remove his coat and scarf.

“Here, allow me,”John took his outwear to the coat rack as quickly as possible before rushing back. “Would you like something to drink, Sherlock?” He had to choke back a wave of nervous giggles. Speaking the guy’s name was turning him to mush. It was ridiculous. “Sure, John. I’ll have what you’re having.” Sherlock nodded slightly, indicating the forgotten bottle in his host’s hand. Ah that smile was back again. It was too much. A tiny giggle slipped, treacherous thing. John bolted for the kitchen to hide his face in the icebox and cool down. When he returned with two fresh bottles, Sherlock had taken a spot in the far corner, leaning back on the long gray sofa and watching the rest of the guests.

“Not one for mingling?” John asked, settling in next to him.

“Not really my area,” Sherlock responded, taking a long pull from his drink before turning to face the shorter man. “And you? Do you normally enjoy so much.. company?”

“Me? Oh god no,” John laughed. “My housemates, Molly and Mike, they are insatiable social butterflies. More like locusts if you ask me.” Sherlock’s smile broadened.

“So, John,” he began, leaning in closer and dropping his voice to a whisper. “What do you enjoy?”

John fidgeted with his bottle, nervously drinking too much and choking. Coughing out an answer as he watched Sherlock’s face lockdown, fighting back the temptation to laugh. “I..ahem.. I.. that is… well I mostly work. I would like to travel. I enjoy many things, I just don’t have the time for recreation. Not right now.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Obligations,” John answered. He didn’t want to explain further, his eyes silently pleading not to be pressed.

“Ah,” Sherlock dropped the line of inquiry. Finished his beer and set the bottle aside before leaning forward, elbows braced upon his knees, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His gaze was voracious. John slowly finished his own beer as the taller boy looked him up and down, processing.

“So, what about you then,” John asked, breaking the silence, “what field are you going for?”

“Forensics I suppose,” Sherlock answered. “Though my strength is in chemistry, I feel detective work would be a more practical use of my skills than a laboratory. Crime scenes are just so fascinating, each one wholly unique,” the taller man trailed off, lowering his gaze. He’d done it again, got a bit too starry eyed when talking about murders.

“That’s fantastic,” John beamed, his face lit up and smiling clear to his hairline. “I’ve never met anyone in Forensics before. Well, Molly says she may look into being a Morgue Tech Pathologist later on but I bet you have all kinds of fascinating stories to tell. I’ve always loved detective novels and programmes though you probably find them all tedious and unrealistic, being the real thing and all.” Sherlock looked back up surprised. “Well I have helped Scotland Yard on a few cases, just consulting,” he boasted, returning John’s infectious smile. Usually people found his field morbid, looking at him a way that set ice in his core. But this little ball of sunshine, conductor of light, filled him with something new.

John opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by a shrill voice calling him from across the room. His eyes shot wide, half tempted to dive behind Sherlock and hide. Janine was a good friend, when she wasn’t trying to set him up with random friends. Unfortunately, that was how she spent the bulk of their acquaintance.

“Joooohn, darling where are you? Oh! There he is. Come Mary.” The tall brunette snaked through the crowd, dragging her poor friend behind her.

“Sorry,” he managed, shooting Sherlock a frown and apologetic shrug before standing to play host to the unwelcome matchmaker.

“Janine, hello. And who is the poor victim you’ve dragged along this time?”

“Oh hush you! I know you love all the attention.” Janine poked his chest teasingly then stepped back to push the shorter girl forwards. She had shoulder length cropped blonde hair, fringe hiding half her face. Her eyes were pale blue, downcast and shy. John held his hand out waiting for her to raise her head, then dropped it and just spoke. “Well, nice to meet you, I am John and you are?”

“Mary,” Janine answered for her, a put upon sigh and hand on the hip before she gave up and took the girl’s hand again. John could swear he saw a smile and blush when Janine pulled her close and _oh_ … he laughed to himself. Ever the matchmaker, never the wiser. Turning to ask Sherlock if he’d noticed, the blonde found his sofa vacated.

Before a full pout could set in he heard the voice, a deep baritone breaking through the murmur and chatter of the party shaking through his bones. His new obsession was in the games room.

John made his way through the crowd, carefully avoiding Janine and her second victim, Sarah. At least he knew that one. Nice girl, had a few classes with her, but still held no interest. Not like--  “Sherlock,” John stopped in the doorway to the games room. His new found friend was being settled a bit forcefully among the circle of floor cushions by Greg and Mike.

“John, please,” Sherlock looked up, pleading. “Can you tell them I’m not. I mean I don’t,” the taller man trailed off, sinking into the pillows defeated. John moved to sit next to him, offer some token of reassurance. But suddenly he was shuffled into the circle as well. Sandwiched between Mary and Sarah at Janine’s insistent shoving. Looking up he found Sherlock’s eyes and shot him a quick smile mouthing, “It’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” Mike started as everyone settled in. He held the bottle up as he spoke. “Now that everyone is properly buzzed, time to bring back a classic: Spin the Bottle. The rules are simple. Just like the name implies, spin the bottle. Wherever the open end points is who you kiss. Don’t force tongue or anything, if they don’t want it. If you want to leave after your turn feel free to do so, but it’s more fun if you stay. I’ll go first.”

Mike spun, landing on Greg. Greg laughed and shot a thumbs down so Mike spun again landing on a cute redhead named Becca. She jumped across the circle and snogged the blushing boy before he had time to react. Everyone bursting into laughter and giggles as Mike passed the bottle to his left. Molly spun, landing on Jim. Her hobo maybe not a hobo boyfriend. They shared a polite peck amidst hoots and egging. After Molly, Greg took his turn, landing on and and kissing Sally which of course set off Phillip. The couple leaving the circle to have yet another spat on the patio.

Next in line was Janine, her spin landed on Mary. Never one to turn down a challenge she kissed the shorter girl solid on the lips. John watched the blonde shiver and smile. _Yep, definitely misjudged that one, Janine._ Smiling he spun the bottle and barely noticed when it landed on Sherlock until everyone got silent.

Sarah reached forward about to respin for him when John stopped her hand and simply shook his head no. Sitting up on his knees, John inched across the circle and took Sherlock’s hand. He leaned in, a breath between his cheek and tempting curls and, oh god, those lips. John unconsciously licked his lips, eyes darting back up to seek consent. Sherlock gave the tiniest nod and closed the gap himself, taking John’s mouth with his own. Everything fell away in that moment. The music, the chatter, the shrieks and gasps of surprise. John felt a curious tongue tease across his lower lip. He moaned and opened up, letting the taller man take full control. His hands found themselves braced on Sherlock’s knees, leaning deeper into the kiss. Sherlock’s tongue was velvet soft and warm. Tasting and licking into every inch of his mouth. John could hear himself gasping, groaning, begging for more with every tiny noise he couldn’t hold back. He could feel those fingers, god those long prodding digits working up his back, pulling him closer. If he could just--

“Oi John!” Mike broke in, “he needs to breathe!” They jumped apart, startled. Sherlock’s hair was a mess, John’s hands having made their own decision to get at those curls. His lips were puffy and red, eyes glazed over and looking positively debauched. John opened his mouth to speak but found no words would come. A lopsided smile was all he could muster as Sherlock leaned in to whisper in his ear, “Care to continue this elsewhere?”

“Oh god yes.”


	6. First Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short one today! Post-HLV sorta off-canon. Mary is dead, Sherlock and John are married.

John could feel him fidgeting before he opened his eyes. The room grown thick with impatience and frustration. _Shff shff_ sheets flipped back and duvet kicked aside, head tossing, pillow fluffed, refluffed. Sigh. Louder sigh. “John.” _Ah, there it is_.

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“So I gathered. What’s bothering you?”

“It’s stupid, I know it is, but you know how my mind works. Once latched on to something, it’s hard to just switch it off.”

“What has you so bothered?”

“At your, that is, at the wedding. Something Mary said.”

John opened his eyes. Rolling over to face his lover. “Sherlock! You can’t believe a word she said. Not one word of it. Do you understand?”

Sherlock nodded, but his eyes remained distant. Unsure. “But in the context, I mean, the way you were behaving with Sholto.”

“What did she say?” John sighed, sinking back into his pillow, arm across his eyes, fist clenching and unclenching. Fighting every urge to raise his voice. Sherlock did not deserve one iota of the anger he felt for her.

“She said _Neither of us were the first, you know_.”

John blanched. He felt physically ill. The woman was dead and gone but she was still managing to wreck things, even now. He dropped his arm and shifted to crawl atop his frowning detective. Lowering his face until they were level and waited. Sherlock kept his eyes clenched tight. Frown lines deepening.

“Sherlock, look at me. And listen to me. I want you to look me in the eye as I say this so you know I am not lying.” Sherlock slowly obeyed.

“There has never been nor will there ever be anyone I love more than you, Sherlock. Never. Love isn’t even a strong enough word for the level of devotion and attachment I feel towards you. Yes, there were first kisses. First sexual experiences. A first spouse even,” John pauses then, linking their fingers, brushing over the band on Sherlock’s finger. “But there is only one you. There will never be another. From the first moment I met you, I was willing to kill for you. Die for you. And despite all we have been through, that has never changed. Your life, your existence, is irreplaceable. I said it before, you recall, I am addicted to you. My heart beats only for you.”

There was a pause, breath shared between them as John waited and Sherlock let every word sink into his skin, wrap him in warmth and comfort, erasing the cruel jest and replacing the moment with newer, better memories. Sherlock blushed, arms encircling his doctor as he pulled John down for a quick kiss.

“Oh John, your mastery of the English language never ceases to appal me.” His words were all snark but his eyes were smiling.


End file.
